Charlie Boy
by interpol.ice
Summary: QW13. It's the 1860s and the Union and the Confederates are at each other's throats. America is a mess of blood and dust and so far, Santana Lopez has managed to stay out of it, working in a little Saloon in Ohio. A mysterious soldier walks into her bar one night and Santana should have known. Should've known he'd be all sorts of trouble.


**Title:** Charlie Boy  
**Author:** interpol..ice  
**Fandom:** Glee  
**Characters:** Santana Lopez, Quinn Fabray  
**Rating:** M  
**Words:** 4,800+  
**Quinntana Week Prompt: **Historical Time Period  
**Summary:** QW13. It's the 1860s and the Union and the Confederates are at each other's throats. America is a mess of blood and dust and so far, Santana Lopez has managed to stay out of it, working in a little Saloon in Ohio. A mysterious soldier walks into her bar one night and Santana should have known. Should've known he'd be all sorts of trouble.  
**Disclaimer:** Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and his people. Some lyrics in this fic belong to The Lumineers and The Killers. They are wonderful bands. Oh, and I own little, I own little.  
**Author's Note:** This was written for Day 4 of Quinntana Week 2013. I've been out of the running since the first day but I'll chug along. This was supposed to be longer but my one-shot had to be cut in half. Turns out, my Quinntana fics, just like the ship, have a tendency of becoming a 'two-time thing' as well *cue laughter and applause*. Expect the second part soon.  
**Warning: **Fic contains sensitive themes relevant to the American Civil War so proceed at your own risk.

* * *

**CHARLIE BOY**

_by_

_interpol..ice_

* * *

_Charlie boy, don't go to war_

_First-born in forty-four_

_Kennedy made him believe_

_We could do much more_

- The Lumineers, "Charlie Boy"

* * *

The year was 1863 and the northern and the southern states were knee-deep in blood and conflict. Despite the escalating number of battles and raids throughout the country, Ohio held strong and remained a haven for escaped and runaway slaves.

The only reason why Santana wasn't in some plantation getting beaten on routine was because one Mister Will Schuester heard her singing by the side of the road one day. He said that when he heard her sing, it was as sweet as the rain would've been if it came down as honey. Smooth and sweet.

It was four days after her parents were taken away from her and sent to a cotton plantation down South. She was twelve and such a quick and small little thing that she was able to achieve what her parents could not. She had bruises and welts from where a big leather whip snapped at her that morning but she escaped before the sun came up.

Santana ran and cried and ran and then, stopped and starved, became too tired to cry. She then remembered her parents, that they were her whole world and now she lost them. It was a bitter and wretched pit the world had dug for her and that night, she fought off sleep, scared to wake up the next morning dead.

But she woke up the next morning and marvelling at the peristence of her lifeline, she travelled north. The days went on, all dust and heat and an occasional charitable wanderer who gave her bread or apples or a drink from their canteens. When strange men with their hungry smiles tried to touch her, she did not pull away. She jumped at them and bit at their arms. She'd chomp into them until their skins ripped, and in their shock and pain, she would create a small window of them just screaming and cursing which bought her time to dart away and run, pump her little legs hard, onwards for North.

It was four days later when she discovered that she had reached Ohio. Here, folks were less vicious. The women were kinder to the small girl. Some stopped to stroke her hair (she had beautiful hair) and tell her what a poor little thing she was. There was even a woman who gave Santana a quarter of her loaf of bread. And the men... The men, from the way most of them ignored her, appeared to be less likely to rape her for all she was worth.

She bit no man's arms in Ohio.

She had no need to because, eventually, Doctor William Schuester came across the most beautiful voice he's heard in a decade. And, when he found the girl by the old postal office, he wasted no time. He took her in, fed her, and gave her warm water to bathe in. He even set a place up for her in his home, where his medical office used to be.

Yes, Santana missed her parents very much. She still had dreams about them, dreams where they were alive to her again. They were dreams where she could hear her mother humming her to sleep, where she could feel her father's prickly beard when he kissed her cheeks. And all those nights, she woke up either crying or wanting to throw something out the window.

She loved her parents but they were gone now. And Mister Schuester raised her like his own first-born. He taught her to read and write. He taught her sums and science. He taught her how to tell time and how to read the clouds and the wind for rain. Taught her how ale and beer got all foamy like they did.

Five years later, she was as learned as those fancy slave-owners in those stupid estates. Santana developed a certain cockiness and held on to the belief that she was smart enough to take shit from nobody. She was a seventeen year-old colored girl in Civil War America. She was alive. More importantly, she was free.

This was a time freedom was worth more than gold. This was 1863.

x x x

* * *

Schuester's Saloon was put up in 1861. Doc Schue finally brew up a decent batch of ale and he got confident enough to start selling it and so he pitched a lot of money into building the Saloon. Now he was a big name in town and if you were anybody important, you took your drinks at Doc Schue's.

And as expected, Santana was made to work as its waitress, a bit to her chagrin. It wasn't exactly the most glamorous job in the world but Doc Schue paid her generously for it. Unlike most people of her color, Santana earned ten dollars a month, pouring drinks and waiting on tables. She was lucky.

On slow nights she got to entertain the customers. Apparently, she had this 'vicious yet endearingly feminine humor' that the regulars thought was a real riot. In all honesty, half the customers came here for the refreshments and the other half, they came to see Santana. And so, the high-grade alcohol and the fabulous Santana Lopez kept the drinks and the customers of Schuester's Saloon flowing in earnest.

These customers, maybe they bought another drink for themselves, maybe one for her, for being a doll. It didn't matter to Santana, a sell was a sell. They loved Santana and Santana loved the money she rolled in from them.

See, Doc Schue was a well-respected man in their town. That's why the white folk weren't trying no shit with her when they came to the Saloon. Either you were fine with a colored girl serving you a drink or you were supposed to leave. That's why Santana didn't get much heat in the Saloon. People understood.

Outside the Saloon, though... Well, that was a whole other story. She wasn't a little girl anymore so people more or less had to take her seriously now. So, outside, she couldn't walk into a shop without some white fool staring at her like she was some naked Jesus.

Now, there were these ladies—no actually, there were these silly _girls_ who didn't have the decency to hide their disdain for Santana. They were the kind of girls who were married off before they had any chance to grow into properly functioning individuals and Santana hated it when she had to see them around town.

Doc Schue just happened to be one of the town's more honest and reputed physicians. He imparted his medical knowledge upon Santana despite the girl's obvious antagonism to the subject. (Blood and disease just wasn't her _deal._) In fact, after Doc Schue treated a patient who had his leg blown off by a cannonball, he even trusted Santana enough to run over to the pharmacy to purchase more bandages, chemicals, and new surgical needles.

Once she got there, Santana wasn't even spared a second of silence. There was the bitch, Kitty Wilde, and her lady-in-waiting, Marley Rose. Marley was a sweetheart but when you were with Kitty Wilde, you became pure evil by association. Their whispers came, drifting over their ridiculous fans and handkerchiefs. They passed the words "saloon girl" back and forth to each other as they eyed Santana with a detectable malice.

And Santana had nothing she could do about it. She was already a whore in their eyes and she couldn't change that even if she saved a hundred babies from a burning hospital.

It bothered her but sometimes, her tan skin reminded her that she had to know her place. There would always be white folk talking trash about people like her.

x x x

* * *

It was almost sunset (Santana could tell by the dark orange of the sky) when he walked in. He pushed through the batwing doors like a dream, his golden hair a perfect mess. His young, strong face and the dark blue he wore spoke volumes to Santana. This one was a soldier.

He idled around the entrance for a bit, scanning the room. He found a free table at the back of the Saloon and he walked over to it, pulled out a chair, and draped his Union frock over it, saving himself a place.

When he made for the bar, Santana ducked her head down and busied herself with the kegs, pouring beer into mugs for the regulars at table two.

He cleared his throat. Santana took this as her permission to look and _Christ_...

Close up, the boy was even more beautiful.

And Santana wasn't sure if he was just slouching or whatever, but the boy wasn't really that tall.

"What do you drink around here?" His voice was strange. Like a weak breeze on a hot night that left you wanting more.

After she got over her surprise, Santana said, "Well, I'd say our beer." Santana hauled up a tray onto the bar, about to take it to table two. And she said to the boy, "But that's up to you, soldier."

He laughed. A quick and nervous laugh. "Soldier," he repeated like it was some foreign word. "Okay. I'll have some lemonade then, Miss."

Santana gave him the facial equivalent of 'you've got to be kidding me'. Lemonade at this hour?

The boy, confused by her expression, said, "What is it?"

"Nothing, Private. It's just that..." Santana made her way around the bar and picked up the tray. "You sure are a serious guy."

He only narrowed his eyes at her warily. Like Santana said, he was a serious guy.

"Okay, I'll get it to you in a while," Santana said, making her way to Cooter Menkins with the tray of beer. He was already holding his hands up in impatience.

"All right, thanks," Santana heard the boy say from behind her. She also heard him slap some coins onto the bar table. "Here," he said, voice raised. "Should be about enough."

Santana made a mental note to check later on if he did, indeed, leave five cents on the counter.

x x x

* * *

Santana expected that some friends would join the boy but the night went on and nobody came. He sat there quietly and in a strange feat, was able to make his lemonade last over two hours. He was mostly just writing in this journal of his.

The fact that he knew how to read and write intrigued Santana.

Well, _of course. _Of course he had to be one of those educated boys.

Santana groaned. She now had to convince herself that it wasn't a good idea, asking the boy if he wanted to be pen-pals.

x x x

* * *

They were supposed to be closing out in a few minutes and the Saloon's only customer now was the blonde boy, who, still lost in himself, was completely unaware of this fact. Doc Schue looked onto him sadly. "Santana," he said, not taking his eyes off the boy (who continued scribbling away). "Why don't you talk to him? He probably needs support."

"Looks like he likes his solitude, Doc," Santana said, wiping the countertop clean. "Besides, I've gotta board up," she added distractedly.

"No, I'll do it," he said. He turned to her. "Make him a cup of coffee and go talk to him."

Sometimes Santana hated how much of a good man William Schuester was. She thought it was completely unwarranted, handing out free coffee, but she fired up the stove and started boiling the water anyway.

x x x

* * *

She moved quickly because she was tired and wanted to be done with this already. "Soldier," Santana greeted, unceremoniously setting the mug of coffee down in front of the boy.

"I didn't order this," the boy said to Santana as she sat on the chair opposite to him.

"Doesn't matter. We're actually closed," she said. To make a show of it she glanced around. The boy mirrored her actions and slowly realized that yes, Schuester's Saloon was about to close.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the boy said, pushing his chair back and about to stand up when Santana stopped him.

"No, wait! It's fine. Actually... My boss, Will over there, wants you to have this." Santana tapped her nails on the table, near the mug of steaming hot coffee.

The boy pulled his chair back in awkwardly and then he took the mug and held it up near his face and sniffed.

"Don't worry. Santana's made that nice and sweet for you. Extra sugar," she said, leaning back into her chair. "I'm Santana, by the way," she added after seeing the boy's incomprehension.

The boy took a sip of the coffee. He closed his eyes then, looking so content and serene and angelic in that moment, that Santana's mouth, completely of its own accord, hung open for a second. Just a second.

When his eyes opened, Santana noticed they were a rich hazel-green. Her breath caught. Those eyes were doing things to her. She breathed harder then, not believing the effect those damned eyes on her. She couldn't help it.

He hummed his appreciation. "My, that's pretty swell stuff you've got here," he said, impressed. She beamed at him and he smiled back. Santana wanted to say something, she really did, but her quick wit quit on her tonight so there they were, just blinking at each other like dumb cats until he said, "I'm Quinn."

"Strange name," Santana said immediately, watching him take another sip of coffee.

"So is Santana," he shot back. "But yeah, Quinn. It's short for... Quintin."

"Quentin?" Santana said.

"No, _Quintin_," he corrected. Then he got this uncomfortable look on his face. "Actually, just call me Charlie. All my friends call me Charlie."

"So what? Does it mean we're friends now? Since I can call you Charlie too?"

Quinn-Charlie?-_Charlie _only grinned at Santana. "Not necessarily," he said, taking his mug and lifting it to his lips again.

He drank deeply, holding Santana's eyes. It was like a spell and Santana couldn't look away. He said to her then, "But I'd like that. I could use a friend."

x x x

* * *

He's never been into battle before and his first fight was just over the horizon. Charlie said he was scared.

"If you're scared, why'd you enlist in the first place?"

Charlie pursed his lips and crossed his arms. While he thought about it, Santana saw how little he actually was. No muscle at all. If she were honest with herself, the only reason he would last long in battle was because he made for such a small target.

"You know... Duty to your family and your country," he said, looking off to the side, avoiding Santana's gaze.

Santana pulled Charlie's empty mug towards her. She took out a towel and wiped the coffee ring he left on the table.

"You don't sound so convinced," Santana said, resting her elbow on table and cupping her face with an open hand, unable to hide her interest. "Do you even like the army?"

"What's not to like?" Charlie said with a big smile. "I'm looking to make thirteen dollars a month."

The boy had such a beautiful smile. What a waste, Santana thought. The war was going to take that smile away.

x x x

* * *

Talk of Confederate cavalries invading Ohio spread like a bad disease. Schuester's Saloon fell into a lull, their customers probably shacking themselves up in their homes. Dangerous times hurt for business and it dampened even Doc 'ever-smiling' Schue's spirits.

Confederates, led by Brigadier General Morgan, spilled into the land and so, some called it 'Morgan's Raid'.

But what concerned the people more was why the invasion was called 'The Calico Raid'. So actually, this was on account of the Confederate raiders heartlessly ransacking houses and local stores for personal gain. The thieves were known to smash down doors, break windows, and burn walls.

Upon hearing this, the good and peaceful man, Doc Will Schuester of Schuester's Saloon, promptly bought two rifles and five pistols. He would be damned if any Confederate were to take anything of his. Especially that sweet double-breasted vest he wore on special occasions that he kept hidden in a chest upstairs in his room. The vest that rested between layers of blankets and tweed pantaloons.

They weren't taking that, no siree.

x x x

* * *

Burt Hummel couldn't go to war because he had a problem with his heart. He got these bad attacks everytime he got worked up. Burt wanted to fight for the Union but Doc Schue wouldn't let him. Kurt was Burt's only son and he, knowing how much it meant to his father for a Hummel to fight in the war, wanted to do Burt proud. Kurt wasn't the biggest tool in the shed but he tried for his father.

So now, two months after Kurt signed up for the army, Burt was outside his shop, his woodworking shop, crying and throwing hammers and saws out into the dirt street. Kurt died in Indiana.

Although Santana never spoke with Kurt that much, she knew he was a decent boy. He was a skinny thing with the palest skin. Had his hair made up all the time and his clothes pressed and worn with such invention, you'd think he knew more about prettying himself up than you did.

He was dead now.

And Santana tried not to, but she thought about Charlie. Imagined him getting shot.

x x x

* * *

It was September now. The nights were colder and the atmosphere in the Saloon took on an even more obvious gloom. Santana stopped making rounds because it just didn't feel right anymore. She could tell all the jokes in the world, sing all the chipper songs north of the border, and it wouldn't fill the hole in these men's hearts. Also, Doctor Schuester would occasionally pop out for medical field training two towns away so Santana had to man the bar on her own for a week or two.

It was long nights with her stuck behind the counter, pouring beer, making drinks, and tending the cashbox. Santana had a pistol hidden in the drawer underneath it. She hasn't been provoked enough to use it yet but just the same, she dreaded for the day it would come to that. And really, Santana had no clue how to fire a gun.

These new responsibilities kept Santana occupied and on her toes. Made her forget about that boy she met that one night in June.

Which was why Santana almost collapsed when she turned around, a mug of beer in each hand, to find Charlie sat on one of the high chairs at the opposite side of the bar. He wore a plain cotton shirt today, his Union jacket nowhere in sight.

His hair was longer, the blonde tips were level with his chin already. Yet, his cheeks remained as smooth as a baby's ass, save for a small scar on his cheek bone. It was a sliver Santana did not remember from when they first met.

Santana set the beers down onto the counter and tapped at the call bell. She leaned out and announced, "Sebastian, two beers!"

When Sebastian Smythe came to get his beer, he paused and stared shamelessly at Charlie. "Why, hello," he said in that goddamn tone of his, and took his last, healthy up-and-down of the soldier before he went back to his table.

Charlie was such a clueless boy. He turned to Santana. "That was strange. What was that all about?"

Santana shook her head in annoyance. "Can't you tell? He ain't saying hi like that because he wants to be buddies," she said. "Boy wishes he could ride your pony."

Charlie's mouth hung open then. "I can't seem to follow," he said slowly.

Such deviance was probably too heavy for his little white mind to comprehend so Santana just went along with it when he shook it off and moved on by telling Santana, "Hey, I'm still alive." He was smiling, like it was some joke.

"Yeah, that I can see."

Charlie leaned in closer, said in low voice, "Aren't you impressed?"

"Talking horses impress me. Not cocky white-boy soldiers."

That did not seem to put Charlie down. In fact, it even gave him the nerve to say, "I've missed you."

Maybe Santana's heart stopped then. Maybe it didn't. That was one secret Santana Lopez would never tell.

"Whatever," said Santana, rolling her eyes. "Whaddya want?"

"To see you," Charlie said.

He wasn't this bold when they first met. It was entertaining, really, how he just suddenly seemed to shit confidence.

Santana laughed. "Good one. I mean I got ten types of alcohol behind me." She threw her arms out, highlighting the bottles and kegs the bar offered. "Which of these bad boys am I about to serve up to you, Private?"

Charlie gave Santana a small smirk. With a glint in his eyes, he said, "Whiskey."

Santana snorted. "I see that you've made progress."

"What do you mean?"

"Last time you were here, you ordered yourself a goddamned lemonade. Now you're walkin' in with an attitude, asking for some whiskey," Santana said. "Progress."

"I've gotta be honest, I can only handle it on the rocks but—"

"Boy, don't be asking for ice!" Santana said, cutting him off. "We ain't one of those fancy places you have there up North. We ain't got no damned frozen lakes here in September."

Santana did not know if she should find it mighty cute or mighty annoying how this Charlie boy's grin only widened as she ranted.

"All right, Miss. Make that a beer then."

x x x

* * *

"You've got froth at your mouth." Santana wiped it away from the top of his lips with a clean towel. Funny how his face was so smooth. If he grew his hair any longer he could've passed for a girl.

Charlie was hunched over the bar, red in his cheeks and neck. It was his fourth beer and he was starting to grow a little careless.

Charlie sang songs.

_Be still, go on to bed  
Nobody knows what lies ahead  
Life is short, to say the least  
We're in the belly of the beast_

Charlie confessed about the times he botched up in battle.

_"I forgot my gunpowder at the camp. Had to fight with my musket the whole time."_

_"I hid behind the porkers. They took the bullets for me."_

Charlie asked inappropriate questions.

_"Do you think I'm funny?"_

_"Do you think I'm fat?"_

_"How about I buy you a drink?"_

_"San, do you have a man?"_

Charlie told Santana of Beth.

_"My little girl I left back home. She'll be a year old in the spring."_

_"I have to get her back."_

(Charlie probably meant 'Have to get back to her' but Santana was used to having customers mixing up their words, especially after their second drink.)

Either that, or the only other reason she couldn't call Charlie out on it was because... from the knowledge that Charlie had a baby girl out there, Santana pieced out that the baby, Beth, probably had a mother. Charlie probably had a pretty blonde girl he wanted to come home to as well.

And Santana knew of heartbreak. She remembered when the slavers whacked a whip at her arms as she grabbed at her mother's skirts, trying to keep her from being taken away like her father was, just moments before.

Now, with Charlie here... the pain wasn't as immediate but Santana felt bleeding heavy all the same.

x x x

* * *

At about noon the next day, a customer came in ordering an apple cider. His glass was half-empty by the time he remembered he was supposed to tell Santana that she had someone waiting for her out on the porch of the Saloon.

"He thought it'd be rude to come in, dressed as he was," the gruff man said. He was old and possibly forgetful, but Santana wished he remembered sooner anyway.

When she swung out of the Saloon's batwing doors, Charlie was there, sat at the bench on the porch. He stood up when he saw Santana so she was able to see Charlie in all his uniformed glory.

He wore a beautiful Prussian blue sack coat, blue wool trousers, and shiny leather brogans. There was a saber slipped through his belt and the strap of his Union carbine was slung across his chest. He took his kepi hat off his head as he approached her.

Santana wanted to touch the hair that was just freed but she stopped herself. What good would that do to her? The feel of his golden locks would just be another memory. Teasing. Haunting. She noted that he had his things on the bench behind him. A mucket, a canteen, a haversack and a knapsack with a rolled-up blanket strapped to it.

He was leaving.

Santana swallowed. It felt like she had tiny rocks in her throat that just wouldn't go down. And her hands, they were already clean and dry but she wiped them on her apron again anyway. She held them together in front of her so he couldn't see them shake. She mustered up a smile. "Looking sharp there, soldier."

Charlie smiled back. A sad, timid smile.

"We're marching south tomorrow," he said. "Our camp's eight miles from here so I have to leave early, before nightfall." Charlie paused and looked at his shoes. He mumbled, "Thought I'd say good-bye."

Santana wanted to point out how unnecessary this all was. She was just a girl, a colored girl, who poured drinks at a Saloon. She was no sweetheart of his so Charlie didn't have to be here with his dramatic goodbyes.

When he held his head up, he looked grim. "I have a bad feeling about this one. So, you know, I wanted to see you one more time." He smiled at her again, shyly this time.

Santana felt a blush firing up at her cheeks. She couldn't stop it.

"So you saw me now," Santana said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Take a good look and be on your way then."

And Charlie did. He took a good long look at her and Santana loved it, his solemn attention. Charlie took a step closer. Santana was hit by how nice he smelled. Like sweet talcum powder.

"I was hoping for some sort of... token of affection from you."

"Who says I've got any affection for you? You must be dreamin'." And then, adding quite stubbornly, Santana said, "I ain't givin' you a lock of my hair, boy!"

"I'll take this, then," Charlie said before (and this all happened lightning-fast) capturing Santana's lips with his own. He kissed her deeply, deep enough for Santana to taste the honey and coffee in his spit. Santana kissed back, easily ignoring her own voice of reason, the disapproval screaming in her head.

When he pulled away, Santana's hair fell around her face.

Charlie stood in front of her, sneaky grin on his flushed, swollen lips. Santana saw now that he took the ribbon she used to tie her hair.

"Clever," Santana gave him. She tucked her hair behind her ears to keep it out of her eyes.

He was very pleased with himself then, pocketing her dark red ribbon. Then he took her hand and pulled her in closer to him.

Charlie scanned her face seriously. It broke her heart how warm his eyes were, how much he wanted to remember this, remember her.

"Keep me in your prayers?" he whispered hopefully.

"We'll see about that."

Charlie looked at her lips. His hunger could not be masked at all and Santana seriously thought they were going to kiss again.

Instead, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her. Santana almost passed out from the rush.

He turned and went back to the bench. There was a different kind of ache in her chest as she watched Charlie fumble with his things in silence. The rustle of cloth from his bags, the clatter of his mucket hitting his canteen, these were the only sounds he made.

He hopped down the porch steps onto the main road. Before he went on his way, he stopped and turned to Santana again, finding her waiting by the Saloon doors. Charlie stood on the middle of the road and waved.

And Santana thought good riddance. Because boys like Charlie, pretty boys, young-boy-fathers, they were trouble. And there on the porch, she convinced herself that she wanted this. She wanted him gone before she got even more snagged up in his traps.

The wind whipped at his hair, at his clothes. He squinted as the dust rose up around him. The bags and the weapons weighed heavy on his shoulders.

Santana put up a weak hand and waved back.

. . . . . x


End file.
